LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


PAMPINEA 


AND     OTHER     POEMS 


BY 

THOMAS    BAILEY    ALDRICH 


NEW  YOKE 
RUDD   &  CARLETON   130   GRAND   STREET 


UBRARY 

ONIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORtft* 
DAVIS 


ENTERED  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  In  the  year  1860,  by 
THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  for  the  Southern 
District  of  New  York. 


CONTENTS. 


i. 

PACK 

PAMPINEA, 9 

PYTHAGORAS, 15 

THE    TRAGEDY, 21 

TWO    LEAVES    FROM    A    PLAY, .29 

KATHIE    MORRIS, 82 

HASCHEESH, 41 

n. 

HESPERIDES, 45 

THE    CRESCENT    AND    THE    CROSS, 47 

SONG, 49 

PISCATAQUA    RIVER, 50 

THE   LUNCH, 53 

HAUNTED, 54 

SONG,    .                                                                                                .  5T 


yi  CONTENTS. 

PAGB 

MIRIAM'S   WOE, 59 

THE    ROBIN, 62 

IN   THE    OLD    CHURCH    TOWER, 64 

SONG 67 

LAMIA, 68 

THE   MAN   AND   THE   HOUR, 71 

OUR   COLORS   AT   FORT   SUMTER, 72 


Qfo 

MY    FRIEND, 


PAMPINEA. 

AN  IDYL. 


LYING  by  the  summer  sea 
I  had  a  dream  of  Italy. 

Chalky  cliffs  and  miles  of  sand, 
Mossy  reefs  and  salty  caves, 
Then  the  sparkling  emerald  waves, 
Faded ;  and  I  seemed  to  stand, 
Myself  a  languid  Florentine, 
In  the  heart  of  that  fair  land. 
And  in  a  garden  cool  and  green, 


10  PAMPINEA. 

Boccaccio's  own  enchanted  place, 
I  met  Pampinea  face  to  face — 
A  maid  so  lovely  that  to  see 
Her  smile  is  to  know  Italy ! 

Her  hair  was  like  a  coronet 
Upon  her  Grecian  forehead  set, 
Where  one  gem  glistened  sunnily 
Like  Venice,  when  first  seen  at  sea ! 
I  saw  within  her  violet  eyes 
The  starlight  of  Italian  skies, 
And  on  her  brow  and  breast  and  hand 
The  olive  of  her  native  land ! 

And  knowing  how  in  other  times 
Her  lips  were  ripe  with  Tuscan  rhymes 
Of  love  and  wine  and  dance,  I  spread 
My  mantle  by  an  almond-tree, 
"  And  here,  beneath  the  rose,"  I  said, 
"  I'll  hear  thy  Tuscan  melody !" 


PAMPINEA.  11 

I  heard  a  tale  that  was  not  told 
In  those  ten  dreamy  days  of  old, 
When  Heaven,  for  some  divine  offence, 
Smote  Florence  with  the  pestilence ; 
And  in  that  garden's  odorous  shade, 
The  dames  of  the  Decameron, 
With  each  a  loyal  lover,  strayed, 
To  laugh  and  sing,  at  sorest  need, 
To  lie  in  the  lilies  in  the  sun 
With  glint  of  plume  and  golden  brede ! 


And  while  she  whispered  in  my  ear, 
The  pleasant  Arno  murmured  near, 
The  dewy,  slim  chameleons  run 
Through  twenty  colors  in  the  sun  ; 
The  breezes  broke  the  fountain's  glass, 
And  woke  aeolian  melodies, 
And  shook  from  out  the  scented  trees 
The  bleached  lemon-blossoms  on  the  grass. 


]  2  PAMPINEA. 

The  tale  ?    I  have  forgot  the  tale ! — 
A  Lady  all  for  love  forlorn, 
A  Rose-bud,  and  a  Nightingale 
That  bruised  his  bosom  on  the  thorn ; 
A  pot  of  rubies  buried  deep, 
A  glen,  a  corpse,  a  child  asleep, 
A  Monk,  that  was  no  monk  at  all, 
In  the  moonlight  by  a  castle  wall. 

Now  while  the  sweet-eyed  Tuscan  wove 
The  gilded  thread  of  her  romance — 
Which  I  have  lost  by  grievous  chance — 
The  one  dear  woman  that  I  love, 
Beside  me  in  our  sea-side  nook, 
Closed  a  white  finger  in  her  book, 
Half  vexed  that  she  should  read,  and  weep 
For  Petrarch,  to  a  man  asleep ! 
And  scorning  me,  so  tame  and  cold, 
She  rose,  and  wandered  down  the  shore, 
Her  wine-dark  drapery,  fold  in  fold, 


PAMPINEA.  13 

Imprisoned  by  an  ivory  hand ; 

And  on  a  ledge  of  oolite,  half  in  sand, 

She  stood,  and  looked  at  Appledore. 

And  waking,  I  beheld  her  there 

Sea-dreaming  in  the  moted  air, 

A  siren  sweet  and  debonair, 

With  wristlets  woven  of  scarlet  weeds, 

And  oblong  lucent  amber  beads 

Of  sea-kelp  shining  in  her  hair. 

And  as  I  thought  of  dreams,  and  how 

The  something  in  us  never  sleeps, 

But  laughs,  or  sings,  or  moans,  or  weeps, 

She  turned — and  on  her  breast  and  brow 

I  saw  the  tint  that  seemed  not  won 

From  kisses  of  New  England  sun ; 

I  saw  on  brow  and  breast  and  hand 

The  olive  of  a  sunnier  land ! 

She  turned — and,  lo !  within  her  eyes 

There  lay  the  starlight  of  Italian  skies ! 


14  PAMPINEA. 

Most  dreams  are  dark,  beyond  the  range 

Of  reason ;  oft  we  cannot  tell 

If  they  are  born  of  heaven  or  hell : 

But  to  my  soul  it  seems  not  strange 

That,  lying  by  the  summer  sea, 

With  that  dark  woman  watching  me, 

I  slept  and  dreamed  of  Italy ! 


PYTHAGORAS. 


ABOVE  the  petty  passions  of  the  crowd 
I  stand  in  frozen  marble  like  a  god, 
Inviolate,  and  ancient  as  the  moon. 
The  thing  I  am,  and  not  the  thing  Man  is, 
Fills  these  deep  sockets.    Let  him  moan  and  die  ; 
For  he  is  dust  that  shall  be  laid  again  : 
I  know  my  own  creation  was  divine. 
Strewn  on  the  breezy  continents  I  see 
The  veined  shells   and  burnished   scales  which 

once 

Enwrapped  my  being — husks  that  had  their  use ; 
I  brood  on  all  the  shapes  I  must  attain 
Before  I  reach  the  Perfect,  which  is  God, 


15 


16  PYTHAGORAS. 

And  dream  my  dream,  and  let  the  rabble  go : 
For  I  am  of  the  mountains  and  the  sea, 
The  deserts,  and  the  caverns  in  the  earth, 
The  catacombs  and  fragments  of  old  worlds. 

I  was  a  spirit  on  the  mountain-tops, 
A  perfume  in  the  valleys,  a  simoom 
On  arid  deserts,  a  nomadic  wind 
Roaming  the  universe,  a  tireless  Voice. 
I  was  ere  Romulus  and  Remus  were ; 
I  was  ere  Nineveh  and  Babylon ; 
I  was,  and  am,  and  evermore  shall  be, 
Progressing,  never  reaching  to  the  end. 

A  hundred  years  I  trembled  in  the  grass, 
The  delicate  trefoil  that  muffled  warm 
A  slope  on  Ida ;  for  a  hundred  years 
Moved  in  the  purple  gyre  of  those  dark  flowers 
The  Grecian  women  strew  upon  the  dead. 
Under  the  earth,  in  fragrant  glooms,  I  dwelt ; 
Then  in  the  veins  and  sinews  of  a  pine 
On  a  lone  isle,  where,  from  the  Cyclades, 


PYTHAGORAS.  il 

A  mighty  wind,  like  a  leviathan, 

Ploughed   through  the  brine,  and  from  those 

solitudes 

Sent  Silence,  frightened.    To  and  fro  I  swayed, 
Drawing  the  sunshine  from  the  stooping  clouds. 
Suns  came  and  went,  and  many  a  mystic  moon, 
Orbing  and  waning,  and  fierce  meteors, 
Leaving  their  lurid  ghosts  to  haunt  the  night. 
I  heard  loud  voices  by  the  sounding  shore, 
The  stormy  sea-gods,  and  from  fluted  conchs 
Wild  music,  and  strange  shadows  floated  by, 
Some  moaning  and  some  singing.     So  the  years 
Clustered  about  me,  till  the  hand  of  God 
Let  down  the  lightning  from  a  sultry  sky, 
Splintered  the  pine  and  split  the  iron  rock ; 
And  from  my  odorous  prison-house  a  bird, 
I  in  its  bosom,  darted :  so  we  fled, 
Turning  the  brittle  edge  of  one  high  wave, 
Island  and  tree  and  sea-gods  left  behind ! 
Free  as  the  air,  from  zone  to  zone  I  flew, 


18  PYTHAGORAS. 

Far  from  the  tumult  to  the  quiet  gates 
Of  day-break ;  and  beneath  me  I  beheld 
Vineyards,  and  rivers  that  like  silver  threads 
Ran  through  the  green  and  gold  of  pasture-lands, 
And  here  and  there  a  hamlet,  a  white  rose, 
And  here  and  there  a  city,  whose  slim  spires 
And  palace-roofs  and  swollen  domes  uprose 
Like  scintillant  stalagmites  in  the  sun ; 
I  saw  huge  navies  battling  with  a  storm 
By  ragged  reefs  along  the  desolate  coasts, 
And  lazy  merchantmen,  that  crawled,  like  flies, 
Over  the  blue  enamel  of  the  sea 
To  India  or  the  icy  Labradors. 

A  century  was  as  a  single  day. 
What  is  a  day  to  an  immortal  soul  ? 
A  breath,  no  more.    And  yet  I  hold  one  hour 
Beyond  all  price — that  hour  when  from  the  sky 
I  circled  near  and  nearer  to  the  earth, 
Nearer  and  nearer,  till  I  brushed  my  wings 
Against  the  pointed  chestnuts,  where  a  stream 


PYTHAGORAS.  19 

That  foamed  and  chattered  over  pebbly  shoals, 

Fled  through  the  briony,  and  with  a  shout 

Leaped  headlong  down  a  precipice ;  and  there, 

Gathering  wild-flowers  in  the  cool  ravine, 

Wandered  a  woman  more  divinely  shaped 

Than  any  of  the  creatures  of  the  air, 

Or  river-goddesses,  or  restless  shades 

Of  noble  matrons  marvellous  in  their  time 

For  beauty  and  great  suffering ;  and  I  sung, 

I  charmed  her  thought,  I  gave  her  dreams,  and 

then 

Down  from  the  sunny  atmosphere  I  stole 
And  nestled  in  her  bosom.    There  I  slept 
From  moon  to  moon,  while  in  her  eyes  a  thought 
Grew  sweet  and   sweeter,   deepening  like  the 

dawn — 

A  mystical  forewarning !     When  the  stream, 
Breaking  through  leafless   brambles   and   dead 

leaves, 
Piped  shriller  treble,  and  from  chestnut  boughs 


20  PYTHAGORAS. 

The  fruit  dropped  noiseless  through  the  autumn 

night, 

I  gave  a  quick,  low  cry,  as  infants  do : 
We  weep  when  we  are  born,  not  when  we  die  ! 
So  was  it  destined ;  and  thus  came  I  here, 
To  suffer  bravely  as  becomes  my  state, 
One  step,  one  grade,  one  cycle  nearer  God. 

And  knowing  these  things,  can  I  stoop  to  fret, 
And  lie,  and  haggle  in  the  market-place, 
Give  dross  for  dross,  or  everything  for  naught  ? 
No !  let  me  sit  above  the  crowd,  and  sing, 
Waiting  with  hope  for  that  miraculous  change 
Which  seems  like  sleep ;  and  though  I  waiting 

starve, 

I  cannot  kiss  the  idols  that  are  set 
By  every  gate,  in  every  street  and  park ; 
I  cannot  fawn,  I  cannot  soil  my  soul : 
For  I  am  of  the  mountains  and  the  sea, 
The  deserts  and  the  caverns  in  the  earth, 
The  catacombs  and  fragments  of  old  worlds. 


THE     TRAGEDY 


LA  DAME  AUX  CAMELIAS. 


THE  "  Dame  with  the  Camelias  " — 

I  think  that  was  the  play ; 
The  house  was  packed  from  pit  to  dome 

With  the  gallant  and  the  gay, 
Who  had  corne  to  see  the  Tragedy, 

And  while  the  hours  away ! 

There  was  the  faint  Exquisite, 
With  gloves  and  glass  sublime  ; 

There  was  the  grave  Historian, 
And  there  the  man  of  Rhyme, 

And  the  surly  Critic,  front  to  front, 

To  see  the  play  of  Crime. 

21 


22  THE    TRAGEDY. 

And  there  was  heavy  Ignorance, 

And  Vice  in  Honiton  lace  ; 
Sir  Croesus  and  Sir  Pandarus — 

And  the  music  played  apace. 
But  of  all  that  crowd  I  only  saw 

A  single,  single  face ! 

'Twas  that  of  a  girl  whom  I  had  known 

In  the  summers  long  ago, 
When  her  breath  was  like  the  new-mown  hay, 

Or  the  sweetest  flowers  that  grow — 
When  her  heart  was  light,  and  her  soul  was  white 

As  the  winter's  driven  snow. 

'Tvvas  in  our  own  New  England 

She  breathed  the  morning  air  ; 
'Twas  the  sunshine  of  New  England 

That  blended  with  her  hair ; 
And  modesty  and  purity 

Walked  with  her  everywhere ! 


THE   TRAGEDY.  23 

All  day  like  a  ray  of  light  she  played 

About  old  Harvey's  mill ; 
And  her  grandsire  held  her  on  his  knee 

In  the  evenings  long  and  still, 
And  told  her  tales  of  Lexington, 

And  the  trench  at  Bunker's  Hill — 

And  of  the  painted  Wamponsags, 

The  Indians  who  of  yore 
Builded  their  wigwams  out  of  bark 

In  the  woods  of  Sagamore ; 
And  how  the  godly  Puritans 

Burnt  witches  by  the  score ! 

Or,  touching  on  his  sailor-life, 

He  told  how,  years  ago, 
In  the  dark  of  a  cruel  winter  night, 

In  the  rain  and  sleet  and  snow, 
The  good  bark  Martha  Jane  went  down 

On  the  rocks  off  Holmes'  Ho' ! 


24  THE   TRAGEDY. 

The  years  flew  by,  and  the  maiden  grew 

Like  a  harebell  in  the  glade ; 
The  chestnut  shadows  crept  in  her  eyes — 

Sweet  eyes  that  were  not  afraid 
To  look  to  heaven  at  morn  or  even, 

Or  any  time  she  prayed ! 

She  walked  with  him  to  the  village  church, 
And  his  eyes  would  fill  with  pride 

To  see  her  walk  with  the  man  she  loved — 
To  see  them  side  by  side ! 

Sweet  Heaven !  she  were  an  angel  now 
If  she  had  only  died. 

If  she  had  only  died !     Alas ! 

How  keen  must  be  the  woe 
That  makes  it  better  one  should  lie 

Where  the  sunshine  cannot  go, 
Than  to  live  in  this  sunny  world  of  ours. 

Where  the  happy  blossoms  blow ! 


THE   TRAGEDY.  25 

Would  she  had  wed  some  country  clown 

Before  the  luckless  day 
When  her  cousin  came  to  that  lowly  home — 

Her  cousin  Richard  May, 
With  his  city  airs  and  handsome  eyes, 

To  lead  her  soul  astray ! 

One  night  they  left  the  cottage — 
One  night  in  the  mist  and  rain  ; 

And  the  old  man  never  saw  his  child 
Nor  Richard  May  again ; 

Never  saw  his  pet  in  the  clover  patch, 
In  the  meadow,  nor  the  lane. 

Ah !  never  was  a  heart  so  torn 

Since  this  wild  world  began, 
As  day  by  day  he  looked  for  her, 

This  pitiful  old  man. 
"  Where's  my  pretty  maid  ?"  he  said, 

This  pitiful  old  man. 


THE    TRAGEDY. 

Many  a  dreary  winter  came, 

And  he  had  passed  away ; 
And  we  never  heard  of  her  who  fled 

In  the  night  with  Richard  May ; 
Never  knew  if  she  were  alive  or  dead 

Till  I  met  her  at  the  play ! 

And  there  she  sat  with  her  great  brown  eyes, 

They  wore  a  troubled  look ; 
And  I  read  the  history  of  her  life 

As  it  were  an  open  book ; 
And  saw  her  Soul,  like  a  slimy  thing 

In  the  bottom  of  a  brook. 

There  she  sat  in  her  rustling  silk, 

With  diamonds  on  her  wrist, 
And  on  her  brow  a  slender  thread 

Of  pearl  and  amethyst. 
"  A  cheat,  a  gilded  grief!"  I  said, 

And  my  eyes  were  filled  with  mist. 


THE   TRAGEDY.  27 

I  could  not  see  the~players  play, 

I  heard  the  music  moan  ; 
It  moaned  like  a  dismal  autumn  wind, 

That  dies  in  the  woods  alone  ; 
And  when  it  stopped  I  heard  it  still, 

The  mournful  monotone ! 

What  if  the  Count  were  true  or  false  ? 

I  did  not  care,  not  I ; 
What  if  Camille  for  Armand  died  ? 

I  did  not  see  her  die. 
There  sat  a  woman  opposite 

Who  held  me  with  her  eye  I 

The  great  green  curtain  fell  on  all, 

On  laugh,  and  wine,  and  woe, 
Just  as  death  some  day  will  fall 

'Twixt  us  and  life,  I  know ! 
The  play  was  done,  the  bitter  play, 

And  the  'people  turned  to  go. 


THE   TRAGEDY. 

And  did  they  see  the  Tragedy  ? 

They  saw  the  painted  scene ; 
They  saw  Armand,  the  jealous  fool, 

And  the  sick  Parisian  quean  ; 
But  they  did  not  see  the  Tragedy — 

The  one  I  saw,  I  mean ! 

They  did  not  see  that  cold-cut  face, 
Those  braids  of  golden  hair ; 

Or,  seeing  her  jewels,  only  said, 
"  The  lady's  rich  and  fair." 

But  I  tell  you,  'twas  the  Play  of  Life, 
And  that  woman  played  Despair  ! 


TWO    LEAVES   FROM  A  PLAY. 


1. —  Hortense. 

O,  BUT  she  loved  him,  and  the  death  she  died 
Wrote  Love  across  her  bosom.    Fainter  hearts 
Had  wept  and  pined  themselves  into  the  grave. 
She  was  not  fashioned  of  such  gossamer ; 
For  one  bleak  midnight,  robed  as  for  a  fete, 
With  all  her  splendor,  and  her  jewels  on, 
She  sucked  quick  poison  from  a  finger-ring, 
And  so  they  found  her,  in  the  morning — dead. 
The  pearls  lay  on  her  bosom  like  pale  flowers 
When  no  wind  stirs  them ;  with  one  waxen  hand 
She  held  his  crumpled  letter :  in  the  room 
Sat  Silence  and  white  Slumber !     So  she  died. 


30  TWO    LEAVES    FROM   A    PLAY. 

2. — After  the  Masquerade. 

We've  danced  the  night  out,  Madaline. 
Pleasure  is  sick,  and  Music's  self  has  grown 
As  languid  as  a  weary  ballet-girl ! 
There's  not  a  dozen  maskers  in  the  hall. 
How  like  the  pictures  on  a  wizard's  glass 
The  particolored  pageant  has  swept  by — 
Fools  with  their  bells,  and  Monarchs  with  their 

crowns, 

Athenians,  and  bearded  Mamalukes, 
Death-heads  and  Satyrs,  and  weird  shadows  born 
In  the  brains  of  crazy  poets.    Yet  so  real — 
Such  bitter  mimicry !     O,  Madaline, 
This  is  the  very  world  in  miniature : 
We  each  wear  dresses  that  become  us  not, 
We  each  are  maskers  in  a  Carnival. 
The  spangles  and  the  tinsel  of  our  lives, 
The  soul  in  song,  the  jests  above  our  wine, 
Are  pleasant  lies  that  tell  not  what  we  are. 
The  Droll's  at  best  a  melancholy  man ; 


TWO   LEAVES   FROM   A   PLAY.  31 

His  wit  is  only  honey  in  a  skull ; 

And  though  he  glitter  like  a  prism  i'  the  light 

His  colors  cannot  hide  the  skeleton ! 

The  Scholar  is  a  cynic,  and  the  Priest 

A  solemn  epicurean  in  a  cowl ; 

Philanthropy  is  politic :  the  Slave 

Wears  not  such  fetters  as  the  Emperor. 

And  so,  my  love,  Life  plays  at  harlequin, 

Smothers  itself  in  ermine,  or  puts  on 

The  icy  front  of  virtue  for  effect. 

A  smile's  a  mask  to  hide  a  broken  heart  : 

Fair  words  are  masks,  and  all  this  blazoned  world 

Against  the  frozen  opal  in  your  ring, 

There's  no  such  mask  as  woman's  tears  may  be  ! 


KATHIE  MORKIS. 

AN  IDYL. 


1. 


AH!   fine  it  was  that  April  time,  when  gentle 

winds  were  blowing, 

To  hunt  for  pale  arbutus-blooms  that  hide  be 
neath  the  leaves, 
To  hear  the  slanting  rain  come  down,  and  see 

the  clover  growing, 

And  watch  the  airy  swallows  as  they  darted 
round  the  eaves ! 


KATHIE  MORRIS.  33 


You  wonder  why  I  dream  to-night  of  clover  that 

was  growing 
So  many  years  ago,  my  wife,  when  we  were  in 

our  prime ; 
For,  hark !  the  wind  is  in  the  flue,  and  Johnny 

says  'tis  snowing, 

And  through  the  storm  the  clanging  bells  ring 
in  the  Christmas  time. 

3. 

I  cannot  tell,  but   something   sweet  about  my 

heart  is  clinging. 
A  vision   and   a  memory — 'tis  little  that    I 

mind 
The  weary  wintry  weather,  for  I  hear  the  robins 

singing, 

And  the  petals  of  the  apple-blooms  are  ruffled 
in  the  wind ! 


34  KATHIE   MOKRIS. 

4. 

It  was  a  sunny  morn  in  May,  and  in  the  fragrant 

meadow 
I  lay,  and  dreamed  of  one  fair  face,  as  fair  and 

fresh  as  spring : 
Would  Kathie  Morris  love  me  ?  then  in  sunshine 

and  in  shadow 

I  built  up  lofty  castles  on  a  golden  wedding- 
ring! 

5. 

O,  sweet  it  was  to  dream  of  her,  the  soldier's 

only  daughter, 
The  pretty  pious  Puritan,  that  flirted  so  with 

Will; 
The  music  of  her  winsome  mouth  was  like  the 

laughing  water 

That  broke  in    silvery  syllables    by  Farmer 
Philip's  mill. 


KATHIE    MORRIS.  35 

6. 

And  Will  had  gone  away  to  sea ;  he  did  not  leave 

her  grieving ; 
Her  bonny  heart  was  not  for  him,  so  reckless 

and  so  vain ; 
And  Will  turned  out  a  buccaneer,  and  hanged 

was  he  for  thieving 

And  scuttling  helpless  ships  that  sailed  across 
the  Spanish  Main. 

7. 

And  I  had  come  to  grief  for  her,  the  scornful  vil 
lage  beauty, 
For,  oh  !  she  had  a  witty  tongue  could  cut  you 

like  a  knife ; 
She  scorned  me  with  her  haughty  eyes,  and  I,  in 

bounden  duty, 

Did  love  her — loved  her  more  for  that,  and 
wearied  of  my  life ! 


36  KATHIE    MORRIS. 

8. 

And  yet  'twas  sweet  to  dream  of  her,  to  think 

her  wavy  tresses 

Might  rest  some  happy,  happy  day,  like  sun 
shine,  on  my  cheek; 
The  idle  winds  that  fanned  my  brow  I  dreamed 

were  her  caresses, 

And  in  the   robin's  twitterings  I   heard  my 
sweetheart  speak. 

9. 

And  as  I  lay  and  thought  of  her,  her  fairy  face 

adorning 
With  lover's  fancies,  treasuring  the  slightest 

word  she'd  said, 
'Twas  Kathie  broke  upon  me  like   a  blushing 

summer  morning, 

And  a  half-blown  rosy  clover  reddened  under 
neath  her  tread ! 


KATHIE    MORRIS.  3t 

10. 

Then  I  looked  up  at  Kathie,  and  her  eyes  were 

full  of  laughter : 
"O,   Kathie,   Kathie   Morris,  I   am  lying   at 

your  feet ; 
Bend  above  me,  say  you  love  me,  that  you'll 

love  me  ever  after, 

Or  let  me  lie  and  die  here,  in  the  fragrant  mea 
dow-sweet  !" 

11. 

And  then  I  turned  my  face  away,  and  trembled 

at  my  daring, 
For  wildly,  wildly  had  I  spoke,  with  flashing 

cheek  and  eye ; 
And  there  was  silence ;  I  looked  up,  all  pallid  and 

despairing, 

For  fear  she'd  take  me  at  my  word,  and  leave 
me  there  to  die. 


38  KATHIE   MORRIS. 

12. 

The  silken  fringes  of  her  eyes  upon  her  cheeks 

were  drooping, 
Her  merciless  white  fingers  tore  a  blushing 

bud  apart ; 

Then,  quick  as  lightning,  Kathie  came,  and  kneel 
ing  half  and  stooping, 

She  hid  her  bonny,  bonny  face  against  my 
beating  heart. 

13. 

O,  nestle,  nestle,  nestle  there !  the  heart  would 

give  thee  greeting ; 
Lie  thou  there,  all  trustfully,  in  trouble  and  in 

pain; 
This  breast  shall  shield  thee  from  the  storm,  and 

bear  its  bitter  beating, 

These  arms  shall  hold  thee  tenderly  in  sun 
shine  and  in  rain ! 


KATHIE    MORRIS.  39 

14. 

Old  sexton!   set  your  chimes  in  tune,  and  let 

there  be  no  snarling, 
Ring  out  a  joyous  wedding-hymn  to  all  the 

listening  air ; 

And,  girls,  strew  roses  as  she  comes,  the  scorn 
ful,  brown-eyed  darling — 
A  princess,  by  the  wavy  gold  and  glistening 
of  her  hair ! 

15. 

Hark!    hear  the   bells.     The   Christmas  bells? 

O,  no ;  who  set  them  ringing  ? 
I  think  I  hear  our  bridal-bells,  and  I  with  joy 

am  blind ; 
I  smell  the  clover  in  the  fields,  I  hear  the  robins 

singing. 

And  the  petals  of  the  apple-blooms  are  ruffled 
in  the  wind ! 


40  KATHIE    MORRIS. 

16. 

Ah !  Kathie,  you've  been  true  to  me  in  fair  and 

cloudy  weather ; 
Our  Father  has  been  good  to  us  when  we've 

been  sorely  tried : 
I  pray  to  God,  when  we  must  die,  that  we  may 

die  together, 

And  slumber  softly  underneath  the  clover,  side 
by  side. 


HASCHEESH. 


1. 

STKICKEN  with  thought,  I  staggered  through  the 

night; 
The  heavens  leaned  down  to  me  with  splendid 

fires; 

The  seven  Pleiads,  changed  to  magic  lyres, 
Made  music  as  I  went ;  and  to  my  sight 
A  Palace  shaped  itself  against  the  skies : 
Great  sapphire-studded  portals  suddenly 
Opened  upon  vast  Gothic  galleries 
Of  gold  and  ebony,  and  I  could  see, 
Through  half-drawn  curtains  that  let  in  the  day, 
Dim  tropic  gardens  stretching  far  away  ! 

41 


42  HASCHEESH. 

2. 

Ah !  what  a  wonder  seized  upon  my  soul, 
When  from  that  structure  of  the  upper  airs 
I  saw  unfold  a  flight  of  crystal  stairs 

For  my  ascending Then  I  heard  the  roll 

Of  unseen  oceans  clashing  at  the  Pole.  .  .  . 
A  terror  fell  upon  me  ....  a  vague  sense 
Of  near  calamity.     O,  lead  me  hence ! 
I  shrieked,  and  lo  !  from  out  a  darkling  hole 
That  opened  at  my  feet,  crawled  after  me, 
Up  the  broad  staircase,  creatures  of  huge  size, 
Fanged,  warty  monsters,  with  their  lips  and  eyes 

Hung  with  slim  leeches  sucking  hungrily. 

Away,  vile  drug !  I  will  avoid  thy  spell, 
Honey  of  Paradise,  black  dew  of  Hell ! 


II. 


HESPERIDES. 


IF  thy  soul,  Herrick,  dwelt  with  me, 
This  is  what  my  songs  would  be : 

Hints  of  our  sea-breezes,  blent 
With  odors  from  the  Orient ; 
Indian  vessels  deep  with  spice ; 
Star-showers  from  the  Norland  ice ; 
Wine-red  jewels  that  seem  to  hold 
Fire,  but  only  burn  with  cold  ; 
Antique  goblets,  strangely  wrought, 
Filled  with  the  wine  of  happy  thought ; 

45 


46  HESPERIDES. 

Bridal  measures,  dim  regrets, 
Laburnum  buds  and  violets  ; 
Hopeful  as  the  break  of  day ; 
Clear  as  crystal ;  fresh  as  May ; 
Musical  as  brooks  that  run 
O'er  yellow  shallows  in  the  sun ; 
Soft  as  the  glossy  fringe  that  shades 
The  eyelids  of  thy  fragrant  maids ; 
Brief  as  thy  lyrics,  Herrick,  are, 
And  polished  as  the  bosom  of  a  star ! 


THE  CRESCENT  AND   THE   CROSS. 


KIND  was  my  friend  who,  in  the  Eastern  land, 
Remembered  me  with  such  a  gracious  hand, 
And  sent  this  Moorish  Crescent  which  has  been 
Worn  on  the  tawny  bosom  of  a  queen. 

No  more  it  sinks  and  rises  in  unrest 
To  the  soft  music  of  her  heathen  breast ; 
No  barbarous  chief  shall  bow  before  it  more, 
No  turban'd  slave  shall  envy  and  adore ! 

I  place  beside  this  relic  of  the  Sun 

A  Cross  of  Cedar  brought  from  Lebanon, 

Once  borne,  perchance,  by  some  pale  monk  who 

trod 
The  desert  to  Jerusalem — and  his  God ! 


48        THE  CRESCENT  AND  THE  CROSS. 

Here  do  they  lie,  two  symbols  of  two  creeds, 
Each  meaning  something  to  our  human  needs, 
Both  stained  with  blood,  and  sacred  made  by  faith, 
By  tears,  and  prayers,  and  martyrdom,  and  death. 

That  for  the  Moslem  is,  but  this  for  me ! 
The  waning  Crescent  lacks  divinity : 
It  gives  me  dreams  of  battles,  and  the  woes 
Of  women  shut  in  hushed  seraglios. 

But  when  this  Cross  of  simple  wood  I  see, 
The  Star  of  Bethlehem  shines  again  for  me, 
And  glorious  visions  break  upon  my  gloom — 
The  patient  Christ,  and  Mary  at  the  Tomb ! 


SONG. 


1. 

THE  chestnuts  shine  through  the  cloven  rind, 

And  the  woodland  leaves  are  red,  my  dear ; 
The  scarlet  fuchsias  burn  in  the  wind — 
Funeral  plumes  for  the  Year ! 

2. 

The  Year  which  has  brought  me  so  much  woe, 

That  if  it  were  not  for  you,  my  dear, 

I  should  wish  the  fuchsias'  fire  might  glow 

For  me  as  well  as  the  Year ! 


PISCATAQUA  RIVER. 

I860. 


THOU  singest  by  the  gleaming  isles, 
By  woods  and  fields  of  corn, 

Thou  singest,  and  the  heaven  smiles 
Upon  my  birthday  morn. 

But  I  within  a  city,  I, 

So  full  of  vague  unrest, 
Would  almost  give  my  life  to  lie 

An  hour  upon  thy  breast. 


50 


PISCATAQUA   RIVER.  51 

To  let  the  wherry  listless  go, 
And,  wrapped  in  dreamy  joy, 

Dip,  and  surge  idly  to  and  fro, 
Like  the  red  harbor-buoy ! 

To  sit  in  happy  indolence, 

To  rest  upon  the  oars, 
And  catch  the  heavy  earthy  scents 

That  blow  from  summer  shores : 

To  see  the  rounded  sun  go  down, 

And  with  its  parting  fires 
Light  up  the  windows  of  the  town 

And  burn  the  tapering  spires ! 

And  then  to  hear  the  muffled  tolls 
From  steeples  slim  and  white, 

And  watch,  among  the  Isles  of  Shoals, 
The  Beacon's  orange  light. 


52  PISCATAQUA    RIVER. 

O,  River !  flowing  to  the  main 
Through  woods  and  fields  of  corn, 

Hear  thou  my  longing  and  my  pain 
This  sunny  birthday  morn  ! 

And  take  this  song  which  sorrow  shapes 

To  music  like  thine  own, 
And  sing  it  to  the  cliffs  and  capes 

And  crags  where  I  am  known ! 


THE    LUNCH. 


A  GOTHIC  window,  where  a  damask  curtain 
Made  the  blank  daylight  shadowy  and  uncertain : 
A  slab  like  agate  on  four  eagle-talons 
Held  trimly  up  and  neatly  taught  to  balance  : 
A  porcelain  dish,  o'er  which  in  many  a  cluster 
Plump  grapes  hung  down,  dead -ripe  and  without 

lustre : 

A  melon  cut  in  thin  delicious  slices : 
A  cake  that  seemed  mosaic-work  in  spices : 
Two  China  cups  with  golden  tulips  sunny, 
And  rich  inside  with  chocolate  like  honey ; 
And  she  and  I  the  banquet-scene  completing 
With  dreamy  words — and  very  dainty  eating ! 

58 


HAUNTED. 


A  NOISOME  mildewed  vine 

Crawls  to  the  rotting  eaves ; 

The  gate  has  dropt  from  the  rusty  hinge 

And  the  walks  are  strewn  with  leaves. 

Close  by  the  shattered  fence 

The  red-clay  road  runs  by 

To  a  haunted  wood,  where  the  hemlocks  groan 

And  the  willows  sob  and  sigh. 

54 


HAUNTED.  55 

Among  the  dank  lush  flowers 

The  spiteful  firefly  glows, 

And  a  woman  steals  by  the  stagnant  pond 

Wrapped  in  her  burial-clothes. 

There's  a  dark  blue  scar  on  her  throat, 
And  ever  she  makes  a  moan ; 
And  the  humid  lizards  shine  in  the  grass, 
And  the  lichens  weep  on  the  stone, 

And  the  Moon  shrinks  in  a  cloud, 
And  the  traveller  shakes  with  fear, 
And  an  Owl  on  the  skirts  of  the  wood 
Hoots,  and  says,  Do  you  hear  ? 

Go  not  there  at  night, 

For  a  spell  hangs  over  ah1 — 

The  palsied  elms,  and  the  dismal  road, 

And  the  broken  garden-wall. 


56  HAUNTED. 

O,  go  not  there  at  night, 
For  a  curse  is  on  the  place ; 
Go  not  there,  for  fear  you  meet 
The  Murdered  face  to  face ! 


SONG. 


1. 


MERRY  is  the  robin 

That  pipes  away  his  care, 
And  merry  is  the  mackerel 

That  leaps  a  yard  in  air ! 
And  merry  is  the  butter-cup 

Beneath  the  April  sky, 
And  merry  as  the  spring-time, 

Love,  are  you  and  I ! 


57 


58  SONG. 

2. 


Now  the  robin's  chilly, 

And  all  his  songs  are  done ; 
No  more  the  spotted  mackerel 

Leaps  silvery  in  the  sun. 
O,  mournful  is  the  scarlet  leaf, 

And  mournful  is  the  sky — 
But  merry  as  the  spring-time, 

Love,  are  you  and  I ! 


MIRIAM'S    WOE. 


MIRIAM  at  the  planter's  door, 
Her  child  upon  her  knee, 

Sat  as  the  twilight  gathered  round 
The  vale  of  Nacoochee. 

Sat  with  an  anguish  in  her  eyes, 
And  forehead  bended  low — 

Sat  like  a  statue  carved  in  stone, 
All  pallid  with  her  woe  I 


59 


60  MIRIAM'S  WOE. 

By  dark  bayou  and  cypress-swamp, 

By  rice-field  and  lagoon, 
Her  soul  went  wandering  to  the  land 

That  scorches  in  the  noon ! 

And  on  the  lover  of  her  youth 
She  turned  her  patient  eyes, 

And  saw  him  sad,  and  fault,  and  sick 
Beneath  those  alien  skies. 

She  saw  him  pick  the  cotton-blooms 

And  cut  the  sugar-cane — 
A  ring  of  iron  on  his  wrist, 

And  round  his  heart  a  chain ! 

She  saw  him,  when  his  work  was  done, 
Sit  down  in  some  lone  place, 

To  dream  of  her,  and  weep  for  her, 
His  hands  across  his  face ! 


MIRIAM'S  WOE.  61 

She  heard  the  dear  old  violin 

That  he  was  wont  to  play 
At  twilight,  in  their  courting-time, 

When  life  was  sweet  as  May ! 

Then  suddenly  a  catbird  called 

From  out  a  neighboring  tree, 
And  Miriam's  soul  came  back  again 

To  the  vale  of  Nacoochee. 

And  closer,  closer  to  her  heart 

She  held  the  little  child, 
Who  stretched  its  fragile  hand  to  feel 

Her  bosom's  warmth,  and  smiled. 

But  she — she  did  not  own  a  touch 

Of  that  fond  little  hand — 
Great  God !  that  such  a  thing  should  be 

Within  a  Christian  land ! 


THE    ROBIN. 


FROM  out  the  blossomed  cherry-tops 
Sing,  blithsome  Robin,  chant  and  sing ; 
With  chirp,  and  trill,  and  magic-stops 
Win  thou  the  listening  ear  of  Spring ! 

For  while  thou  lingerest  in  delight, 
An  idle  poet,  with  thy  rhyme, 
The  summer  hours  will  take  their  flight 
And  leave  thee  in  a  barren  clime. 


THE   ROBIN.  63 

Not  all  the  autumn's  brittle  gold, 
Nor  sun,  nor  moon,  nor  star  shall  bring 
The  jocund  spirit  which  of  old 
Made  it  an  easy  joy  to  sing! 

So  said  a  poet — having  lost 
The  precious  time  when  he  was  young — 
Now  wandering  by  the  wintry  coast 
With  empty  heart  and  silent  tongue. 


IN  THE  OLD  CHURCH-TOWER. 


1859. 


1. 


IN  the  old  church-tower 

Hangs  the  bell ; 
And  above  it  on  the  vane, 
In  the  sunshine  and  the  rain, 
Cut  in  gold,  Saint  Peter  stands, 
With  the  keys  in  his  two  hands, 

And  all  is  well ! 

64 


IN    THE    OLD    CHURCH-TOWER.  65 

2. 

In  the  old  church-tower 

Hangs  the  bell ; 

You  can  hear  its  great  heart  beat, 
Ah !  so  loud,  and  wild,  and  sweet, 
As  the  parson  says  a  prayer 
Over  wedded  lovers  there, 

While  all  is  well ! 


3. 


In  the  old  church-tower 

Hangs  the  bell, 

Deep  and  solemn.     Hark  !  again, 
Ah !  what  passion,  and  what  pain ! 
With  her  hands  upon  her  breast, 
Some  poor  Soul  has  gone  to  rest 

Where  all  is  well ! 
5 


66  IN   THE    OLD    CHURCH-TOWER. 

4. 

In  the  old  church-tower 

Hangs  the  bell — 
An  old  friend  that  seems  to  know 
All  our  joy  and  all  our  woe : 
It  is  glad  when  we  are  wed, 
It  is  sad  when  we  are  dead 

And  all  is  well ! 


SONG. 


BLOW  from  the  temples  of  the  Sun, 
Thou  heavy-scented  wind ; 

O,  blow  across  the  spicy  isles 
And  strike  the  roses  blind ! 

And  kiss  the  eyes  of  my  true-love, 

And  tell  me  if  she  be 
Not  lovelier  than  the  KhaleePs  wife 

Beyond  the  Indian  sea ! 


LAMIA. 


"  Go  on  your  way,  and  let  me  pass. 

You  stop  a  wild  despair. 
I  would  that  I  were  turned  to  brass 

Like  that  grim  dragon  there, 

"  Which,  couchant  by  the  groined  gate, 

In  weather  foul  or  fair, 
Looks  down  serenely  desolate, 

And  nothing  does  but  stare ! 


LAMIA.  69 

"  What  care  I  for  the  burgeoned  year, 

The  sad  leaf  or  the  gay  ? 
Let  Launcelot  and  Guinevere 

Their  falcons  fly  this  day. 

"  Twill  be  as  royal  sport,  pardie, 

As  falconers  have  tried 
At  Astolat — but  let  me  be ! 

I  would  that  I  had  died. 

"  I  met  a  woman  in  the  glade  : 

Her  hair  was  soft  and  brown, 
And  long  bent  silken  lashes  weighed 

Her  ivory  eyelids  down. 

"  I  kissed  her  hand,  I  called  her  blest, 

I  held  her  true  and  fair — 
She  turned  to  shadow  on  my  breast, 

And  melted  in  the  air ! 


70  LAMIA. 

u  And,  lo !  about  me,  fold  on  fold, 
A  golden  serpent  hung — 

An  eye  of  jet,  a  skin  of  gold, 
A  garnet  for  a  tongue ! 

"  O,  let  the  petted  falcons  fly 
Right  merry  in  the  sun  ; 

But  let  me  be  I  for  I  shall  die 
Before  the  year  is  done." 


THE  MAN   AND   THE  HOUR. 


As  some  rare  jewel,  sealed  within  a  rock, 
Would  ne'er  have  glittered  in  the  sunny  air, 

Had  not  the  lightning  or  an  earthquake's  shock 
Crumbled  the  ledge,  and  laid  its  splendor  bare — 

So  do  fine  souls  lie  darkling  in  the  earth 

Until  some  mighty  tumult  heaves  them  forth. 

Men  of  this  land  and  lovers  of  these  States! 

What  master-spirit  from  the  dark  shall  rise, 
And,  with  a  will  inviolate  as  fate's, 

God-like  and  prudent,  merciful  and  wise, 
Do  battle  in  God's  name  and  set  us  right 
Ere  on  our  glory  ruin  broods  and  night ! 

December,  1860. 

71 


OUR  COLORS  AT  FORT  SUMTER. 


1. 
HERE'S  to  the  Hero  of  Moultrie, 

The  valiant  and  the  true ! 
True  to  our  Flag— by  land  and  sea 

Long  may  it  wave  for  you ! 

2. 
May  never  traitor's  touch  pollute 

Those  colors  of  the  sky — 
We  want  them  pure,  to  wrap  about 

Our  heroes  when  they  die! 

January,  1861. 


72 


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